Follow the Evidence (A Mac Everett Mystery Book 2) (2 page)

“We’re approaching the search area
and we are still picking up the PLP & EPIRB signals. Keep a sharp look
out,” Beck advised.

“Roger,” Fox and Webber said at the
same instant.

The sea and the sky merged, as all
around them was blackness. Below, they could see the spray from the whitecaps
as the wind tore apart the breaking waves. The crew searched the surface with
binoculars and night vision hoping for any sign of life.

“I’d estimate those swells at
fifteen to eighteen feet,” DeGrasso said.

“A couple of the bigger ones are
nearer to twenty,” Fox added.

“Winds are gusting to seventy,”
Beck added.

“Just another day at the office,”
Webber chimed in.

Marty Webber tensed and focused on
something in the distance. “Strobe on the starboard side maybe ten miles,”
Rescue Swimmer Marty Webber called into the intercom. Webber was always the
first to spot vessels or people in the water. Wearing his night vision at one
hundred fifty feet altitude in a rainsquall, he’d picked up the personal
strobe’s sixty flashes a minute at twice the device’s advertised range. John
Lewis’ two-hundred-dollar investment in Danny’s safety had saved both their
lives.

“Roger, I see it,” Beck replied.

Beck adjusted course using radar
and her own night vision to bank toward the strobe now clearly visible on the
surface. The scope of what had happened was quickly apparent.

Coast Guard 6045 Sector
Jacksonville.”

“Coast Guard 6045, go ahead.”

“We have visual on
Danny-L
and
she has capsized,” Beck reported. “We also have visual on people in the water.”

“See that overturned vessel, Senior
Chief?” Beck asked.

“Roger no problem. We see the two
in the water too. Permission to deploy Rescue Swimmer on a free fall
insertion?”

“Roger, free fall insertion,” Beck
replied.

“Commander, some of those swells
are better than the regulation fifteen feet,” Webber reported. “If you go to
thirty, I can time my drop to hit the top of one of the bigger swells. You
won’t have risk the aircraft descending…”

“I’ll fly this bird…but thanks,”
Beck replied. I’ll get you as low as I can, Marty. I’ll call out altitude so
you can time your drop. We’ll put you down swell from the people in the water,”
Beck said. “Make it safe and make it quick.”

For a free fall insertion, the
Rescue Swimmer sits in the open starboard side door. The pilot hovers at four
and half meters or about fifteen feet. The Rescue Swimmer launches himself out
and away from the helo and lands in the water butt first. It’s is an adventure
on a normal day. Today’s conditions made it a challenge.

“Roger that,” Marty replied.
“Commander, Senior Chief, there’s another vessel to starboard,” Webber called
out.

“Roger,” Beck and Fox said
simultaneously.

Chief Fox used his binoculars to
check out the new target while Webber finalized his preparation to drop into
the water.

“Fox to Pilot,” Fox said.

“Go Senior Chief,” Beck replied.

“The second target is adrift, no
lights or power, sails are shredded and she’s listing to starboard. I can’t see
anyone on board and…”

“Roger,” Beck replied. “One SAR at
a time…Coast Guard 6045 Sector Jacksonville.”

“Coast Guard 6045, go ahead.”

“We’re on station and beginning
rescue operations. Two souls in the water. There is another vessel on scene. It
looks to be a sailboat, approximately forty feet, not under power.”

Fox opened the side door while
Webber pulled on his fins and hood. He fitted his mask to his face and took the
snorkel in his mouth. Finally he flexed the three chemical cyalumes, chemical glow
sticks that would mark his position for the chopper crew.

“Ready for one free fall deployment
of the swimmer,” Fox called out over the intercom.

“You’re going to have to watch the
swells here, chief,” Beck warned.

“Roger that” Fox replied.

“Easy down,” Fox directed. “Easy
down.”

“Chief, there’s 15. You can deploy
the swimmer,” Beck advised.

“Roger, deploying swimmer.”

Fox tapped Marty on the shoulder
and Webber pushed off and disappeared from the cabin into the tempest.

“Swimmer away, swimmer is in the
water,” Fox advised.

Webber patted his head with both
hands to signal the helicopter.

"Swimmer signals okay.”

Webber had timed his drop perfectly
catching a rising swell, falling only six or eight feet.

“Returning to orbit altitude,” Beck
advised.

“Somebody here call for a ride?”
Webber asked Danny Lewis. “My name’s Marty. What’s your’s, kid?”

“Danny.”

Webber could see the fear in the
boy’s eyes and how tightly he clutched the unconscious man next to him.

“Danny, everything is going to be
OK, just do like I tell you. Are you hurt?”

“No, but my dad is. He hasn’t said
anything and he’s bleeding,” Danny replied.

“Don’t worry; we can take care of
you both. You ready for a helicopter ride?” Marty asked.

Danny nodded.

Marty gave thumbs up to the helo
hovering overhead. Fox slid the rescue basket out the door and began lowering
it toward the water. Miraculously in the gale force winds, the hundred foot red
trail line landed right in Marty’s hand. He reeled it in and brought the basket
within 5 feet.

“Okay, Danny, you first,” Marty
said.

“No send my dad. He’s hurt,” Danny
protested.

“Nope, kids go first. It’s the
rules,” Marty responded. “When the swell comes by, I’ll tip the basked and you
jump in. I’ll hold onto your dad. The guy up in the helo is Chief Charlie Fox.
Tell him Marty says hello.”

It was hard to tell, but behind his
facemask, Marty Webber was smiling.

Danny slipped neatly into the
rescue basket and almost immediately flew into the air. Marty watched the
basket rise as he held onto the unconscious man in his arms. The basket
disappeared into the helo and then reappeared a moment later. While the orange
basket made its return trip Marty tried to do a quick assessment of the injured
man, but the seas were too rough. When the trail rope was within reach, Mary
hauled the basket in again and put the unconscious man in as gently as he
could. Marty gave a thumbs up and the basket began to ascend. When it was clear
of the water, Marty crossed his arms over his head to signal the basket’s
passenger was injured. Webber turned and began the long swim to the mysterious
sailboat.

“He's heading toward the second
vessel,” Fox said.

“I thought we’d pick him up and
drop him closer,” DeGrasso said.

“It might be safer if he swims over
there,” Beck said.

“He's cutting through those waves
pretty good,” DeGrasso replied.

“Basket at the door,” Fox advised.
“Basket inside and door closed. This victim is injured. Lieutenant, will you
keep eyes on Marty while I attend to this man?”

“Roger,” DeGrasso acknowledged.

After twenty minutes in the roiling
sea, Marty Webber reached the sailboat’s swim platform, timed the roll of the
boat in the swell, and climbed aboard.

“Swimmer is on the vessel,” Senior
Chief Fox reported, as Webber waved. “He’s going below.”

“Roger,” Beck replied.

A palpable tension filled the Coast
Guard helicopter as the three remaining crew waited anxiously for Webber to
reappear. Suddenly the radio crackled to life.

“Coast Guard 6045 from Rescue
Swimmer.”

Go ahead Marty,” Beck replied.

Webber was using the vessel’s
radio.
Smart move
, Beck thought.

Coast Guard 6045 I need a video
camera down here and we’re going to need a vessel for a tow.

“What’s the situation Marty,”
Senior Chief Fox said before Beck could ask.

“Coast Guard 6045, ah, well there’s
no one here.”

“What? Are there any bodies,
Marty?” Fox asked.

“Nope, no bodies, Senior Chief,
there’s not a soul on board. Someone tried to scuttle this tub though. The
seacock was opened, but debris stopped it up.”

“What’s the vessels’ name? Is the
vessel taking on water, Marty?” Beck asked. She wanted her crewman back on
board the helo.

“Not at this time Commander. I’ve
started the pumps. The vessel name is
Wind Dancer
out of Ft. Lauderdale.
The log shows she left Nassau yesterday with three on board. They’re not here
now,” Marty reported.

“Roger,” Beck replied.

“Coast Guard 6045 Sector
Jacksonville.”

“Coast Guard 6045, go ahead.”

“Coast Guard 6045 second vessel on
scene is
Wind Dancer
, U.S. registry. Our Rescue Swimmer is on board and
reports vessel is abandoned, signs of an attempt to scuttle. Request surface
vessel to take
Wind Dancer
in tow and that you alert Law Enforcement
Division.”

November 14

“Ms. DeHart you aren’t listening. I
don’t want any damn commendation from the Sheriff,” I said for the tenth time.
This
broad must be a real pip in person
. She was unreasonable, insistent and in
love with the sound of her own voice. The nails of the blackboard sounds for
the woman’s incessant chatter coming from my car’s speakers made my skin crawl.
“You don’t understand. I sued the department and won. You guys tried to
fire
me.”

My little voice was telling me I
was fighting a losing battle, but I wasn’t ready to throw in the towel, not yet.
I gunned my Camaro ZL1 as I slipped into the East Colonial exit lane and then
eased off the gas. I took the ramp for Hughey Avenue and turned south. The
white Camaro with its flat black hood scoop and rear spoiler looks fast just
sitting in a parking lot, but 450 horsepower is no match for Orlando’s infamous
traffic. Still, I was making good time for a weekday afternoon. I cruised past
the Orlando Police Department new headquarters building. It towered over the
illuminated cross atop the old Orlando Rescue Mission down the block. I turned
left on Church Street.
Only a few blocks to go
. The harpy just kept on.
I tried to tune her out, but it wasn’t working.

“That was under the previous
administration,” the woman replied. “Sheriff Winton is well aware of your
situation. That’s why he wants to recognize your work on the Hunt case. Your
information exonerated an innocent man and resulted in a plea deal that cleared
five homicides,” Marsha DeHart replied.

“It was seven homicides. I killed
two of those people,” I replied, “and there was no plea deal.”

The sheriff’s public relations
lackey wasn’t hearing me and I was out of patience. I turned down South Eola
Drive and then into the alley behind the Drunk Monk. The car shed I’d put up
last month loomed ahead and I swung the big performance car under cover next to
my old gray Honda.

“Whatever, look Mr. Everett, the
Sheriff is going to have a certificate for you at the ceremony tomorrow night,”
she said.

“Hold on,” I said. “I’m getting out
of the car.”

I could have just killed the
Bluetooth connection, and dropped her, but I didn’t. I guess it was a moment of
weakness.

“I’m back,” I said as I put the
cell phone to my ear as I headed for the back door. I fumbled one-handed with
my keys, unlocked the service entrance, and once inside, took the stairs two at
a time.

“He’s going to read your name and
the text of the commendation. The press will be there and there with lots of
coverage. That can’t hurt your business. Come on, will you at least think about
it?”

More than a year ago, General
Martin Hunt had hired me to look into a blackmail scheme. A month later, his
son was in jail, accused of murdering his wife. I fell hard for general’s
daughter, Ashton, and she’d been in the mess up to her pretty little neck. I
cleared Hunt’s son, but the body count had risen to seven including the general
and Ashton. I wanted to put it behind me, but that nagging voice in my head
reminded me I couldn’t escape what I’d done.

I was thinking about it all right.
I didn’t like it, but DeHart was probably right. The publicity couldn’t hurt. I
came through the back door and into the office with the phone still stuck to my
ear.
I hate cell phones.

“It can’t do you any harm. The
Sheriff was
very
insistent,” she argued.

“All right, I’ll do it,” I grumbled.

“The local media will be there,”
DeHart continued. “They’ve had a lot of interest in you, you know.”

“I said OK.”

“Oh,” she stuttered.

She was talking so much she didn’t
even hear me agree.

“I’ll be there, but I still don’t
like it. People died and one of them…oh never mind.”

“Thank you, Mr. Everett,” she
gushed. “You won’t regret it. It’s tomorrow evening at seven. Do you know the
Sheriff’s Office auditorium?

“Yeah I know it,” I said, “but I’m
not wearing a tie. I’m allergic to formal wear.”

“Wonderful! I’ll see you tomorrow
night, good-bye, Mr. Everett and thanks.”

“Bye,” I said as I tossed the phone
on the desk.

Lia Green bounded into the office
from the reception area. My energetic receptionist was a red headed kid with a
long thin face, a dainty nose, and sparkling green eyes. In a way, her build
mirrored her face. Lia was tall and slim, but muscular, with well-defined legs.
More than once, I’d caught myself ogling those gams jutting from her short
skirt. I’d had the office to myself a long time so having Lia around took some
adjustment.

“Was that the woman from Sheriff’s
Office?” Lia asked.

“Yeah,” I muttered.

“She’s pretty insistent, isn’t she?
She’s called four times today.”

“I wonder how she got my cell
number.” I scowled.

“She didn’t get it from me, if
that’s what you mean,” she responded with her own frown. “You said not to give
out that number. I said she was insistent, not that I gave her your number.”

“She’s a pain in the ass,” I replied.
“I bet when she was a kid she pistol whipped little old ladies to make them buy
Girl Scout cookies,” I huffed.

“That or she sold magazine door to
door,” Lia chuckled as she flopped down in one of my new client chairs.

With the big payoff from the Hunt
case, I’d bought the building and upgraded the office. I bought new furniture,
blinds for the windows and added a fresh coat of plaster and paint to cover the
bullet holes and bloodstains. The biggest improvement though, was my
receptionist, Lia. The twenty-two-year old bundle of energy was wearing me out
and I had no secrets. I’d hired Lia a little over a month ago when my buddy
Roscoe Black asked if I needed any office help. I didn’t, but Roscoe said the
girl needed a job.

Two years ago, she hooked up with
some dirtbag in a bar. After a few months, they were living together. That’s
when the trouble started. When he was high or drunk, which was most of the
time, she was his personal punching bag. They’d been living together about
eight months when he nearly beat her to death. She survived and he went to
prison. When she got out of the hospital, the boyfriend was starting a
fifteen-year habitual offender bit at Raiford. Lia took a fresh look at her
life and made some changes for the better. She got her GED and was nearly
through her first year of Business College, but she needed money and that meant
a job. My Army buddy Roscoe worked on me to hire the kid, but I didn’t need a
receptionist. He ambushed me one afternoon and brought her by unannounced. I’d
heard her story, but when we met, she was just so damn bubbly and positive.
Despite a warning from that little voice in my head, I decided to give her a
try. She was getting her life together. I could relate to that. I’m a work in
progress myself. She was crackerjack on the phone, she’d pretty much tamed my
nonexistent file system, and, well, she added a touch of class to the joint. It
didn’t hurt she wasn’t bad to look at either.

Lia crossed her legs Indian style
in the plush chair and pulled her skirt over her knees.
Those damn legs
again.
Her black and white dress was conservative, but pretty. The kid knew
how to dress to impress.

“Sorry, I groused at you.” I
apologized.

“That’s OK,” she said. “I’m a big
girl.” Her usual smile was back. “Mr. Everett you should just go. You’ll get
your picture in the paper and who knows, it might bring in some business.”

“It’s not that simple,” I replied.
I paused and decided to try something one last time. “What do I have to do to
get you to call me Mac? You’ve been here a month and I keep telling you, Mr.
Everett was my father.”

“I see what you’re doing. You think
you’re clever trying to changing the subject, don’t you? I’ve told you before;
it’s a matter of professionalism. The way I dress, the way I speak to my
employer, are all part of it. I owe you respect. I learned that the first week
at Metro College of Business and I still think you should go.”

She had me. I couldn’t argue with
women anymore, then an idea hit me and I said, “Would professional decorum be
upset if you called me Mac when we’re alone and Mr. Everett when we’re with a
client?

“Well-I don’t know…”

“Come on, it just makes me feel so
damn old when you call me Mr. Everett.”

“OK…if I can have tomorrow off. I’m
going to a concert Saturday night at the House of Blues and I want a special
outfit. There’s a sale at Forever 21.”

I could just imagine her being
twenty-one forever. “You want tomorrow off to go shopping? How long does it
take the buy a dress? Oh, and professional decorum says it’s ok to ask for a
day off in your first month?”

“Oh, has it only been a month? It
seems much longer,” she said. She wasn’t very convincing as a dumb broad or a
smart ass. She didn’t even have her second check. We’d agreed to every other
week paydays.

“It’s not just the dress,” she
continued. “You have to have shoes and some new jewelry. Then you have to show
it all to your friends. It’s a whole process, a shopping experience.”

“Geez, take the day off,” I said.
“Give me some peace. Oh and by the way, I’m going.”

“Thanks Mac, she said as she
bounded out of the chair. She flitted around the desk and kissed me on first
one cheek then the other.

“Whoa,” I said. “What’s that for?”

“Well, one was for being a sweetie
and giving me the day off. The other was for wising up and taking that award.”

“What did they say about kissing
your employer at the business college?” I said.

“Before she could answer the street
level door buzzer sounded. Lia leapt into action. She reached over me without a
word to hit the intercom button on my desk phone and then said, “Everett
Investigations.”

“Is Mr. Everett available?” a man’s
voice asked.

I nodded and Lia pushed the button
again and said,” Yes sir, who should I say is here to see him?”

“My name is Summers. I have a
problem my wife. I want to discuss it with Mr. Everett.”

“Please open door when it buzzes
and come to the second floor,” Lia said as she pushed the door release.

Lia was crackerjack all right, I
thought as she walked away.
She’s got a nice ass too.
Lia headed to the
reception area to wait for Mr. Summers. A minute later, I heard voices in the
outer office, then a knock at my door.

“Yes,” I said.

Lia opened the door and said, “Mr.
and Mrs. Summers to see you, Mr. Everett.”

Lia gave me a conspiratorial wink then
stepped aside as a cloud of black and green silk, gold bangles, and perfume
floated into the office. A squarish balding man in an expensive Italian suit
trailed behind her.

“Come in. Please have a seat,” I
said standing to greet my visitors, indicating the new guest chairs in front of
my desk. Thank you, Ms. Green.” I said and she closed the door behind her as
she went back to the reception area.

“I’m Parker Summers and this is my
wife Maria,” my visitor said.

Summers, a stocky guy in his
fifties wore a veneer of self-control. I sensed it was thin though and about to
crack. As wide as he was tall, his fringe of hair was salt and pepper. As I
locked eyes with him, I decided he’d shade everything he told me to his best
advantage. His well-tailored suit concealed a flabby middle as well as his face
hid his concern and deceit.

Maria was younger than her husband
was or had a competent plastic surgeon on stand-by. She was blond, slim, well
endowed, and trophy wife attractive. Dressed to the nines, she was a knockout
in a black and green wrap dress with matching pumps. When she removed her
rhinestone bedazzled Gucci sunglasses, her dark, honest brown eyes burned with
startling intensity.

The tension between my guests was
as thick as smoke from an Everglades brush fire. This was going to be an
interesting interview. When my visitors had each settled into a chair, I asked,
“How can I help you?”

“We’ve come about my daughter,” Mr.
Summers said.

“Our daughter,” Maria corrected.
“Parker, this is useless. She’s gone.”

Her voice was tense but controlled.

I waited for one of them to say
something more, but they sat staring at me.

“What about your daughter?” I
asked.

He shook his head and said, “Oh
excuse me,” He seemed in a waking trance. “Our daughter Jennifer is missing. We
need your help.”

“Missing persons are a police
matter that…”

“Hold it, Everett, Jen isn’t just
missing. It’s much more complicated.”

“Have you contacted the FBI…?”

“The FBI has been no help
whatsoever and as for the local police I wouldn’t know where to turn. I’m
willing to pay anything to get my girl back. It’s my fault…”

“Oh stop it, Parker,” Mrs. Summers
said. The hint of Hispanic accent didn’t fit with the light complected shapely
blond sitting in front of me even if her eyes were a deep brown.

“You see, when our daughter
traveled to Columbia with us this summer,” Parker Summers said. “She met this
young man.”

“So she’s run off with the guy?” I
asked. “I still…”

“No, she’s not run off…” Mrs.
Summers said. “She’s dead and there’s no use…”

“What…?”

“Maria I won’t believe that, not
yet,” Mr. Summers insisted.

I’d have to let him tell his story
his own way, but if their daughter was already dead...

“My wife is originally from
Columbia so we wanted Jennifer to get to know that part of her heritage. We have
a home in Bogotá so when I traveled there this summer my family accompanied me.
I took Jennifer on side trips to Caracas and Brasilia, but for the most part,
she stayed in Bogotá. I did some additional travel while Maria and Jenn took in
Columbian culture.”